Drowning in Courage
by Aleka
Summary: Eowyn and Merry talk on the eve of battle. They are each prepared to die, but also prepared to fight for each other. Very lightly implied MP


Merry spiraled as he realized his worth was nothing. Watching the men mill about with fearful heroism, he had had to leave and duck into a tent because he couldn't shake the feeling of drowning in a sea of chaotic dreams and bravados. Most of the men around him neglected to see him, and to the eyes of the men who did, he was merely a lost little boy playing soldier. He meant so little. 

But his friends meant everything, and he wanted to be something too. If he must die, it would be for them. He could not fathom waiting for his death, as heroes were consumed by sin. Still, he would rather die a thousand deaths than receive the news that any of his companions would never come back. 

_Pip,_ he cried in his mind, feeling shame for the first time for the tears that tried to caress his cheeks. _Pip, are you gone? Why can't I feel your bravery in me anymore? _

Merry grasped the hilt of his futile sword, wanting and needing so much in that moment that his entire body filled with emotional warmth and a passionate sweep. He had never known the meaning of despair. But he was raked with it now and he wanted to die. 

_For **you**_, Merry wanted to whimper. _I would have just **died**_ _for you._

A hand fell upon his shoulder, making him jump. At first, he thought, _Now can I die? _

But turning around, he saw that it was Lady Eowyn. The opening flap of the tent still swayed from her silent entrance. She towered above him, a statue of unmovable beauty and grace. Her usual tentative yet warm smile tugged at the corners of her lips. And also as usual, there was no happiness in it.

"All suited up, I see," she observed, nodding towards him, looking up and down his armour. "You look very much the part, Merry."

"Of what, my lady?" he inquired curiously. 

"A man." Porcelain fingers played with the long tresses that fell across her back like golden ribbons. "An honourable man, ready and willing to do those depending on him proud."

"I beg your pardon," Merry said, completely bold and devoid of any shyness as one would be expected to feel in front of such a woman. "But I do not wish to fight to make anyone proud of me."

"You do not have to," she agreed. "For we are already proud."

A crooked smile found his face, followed by some modest embarrassment as colour touched his cheeks. But then it fell away and he became grave. "We will die, won't we?" He did not sound afraid or bitter, but rather understanding with a trace of hard experience. 

It hurt her. This was Meriadoc Brandybuck, the clever, untainted Shireling who loved his friends and believed in goodness. What business did cynicism have in finding him? 

"No, Merry," she promised. "Don't you see? We have nothing to lose. Together, we have everything. There is no match for us."

"I _had_ everything, once," he said. "Or at least, what I thought was everything. I never knew the world outside of my happiness. I loved and I laughed and I danced and I…it was beautiful, Eowyn. He…he was."

"Peregrin Took?" she asked, filling in the blanks and spaces like only an observer could do. 

He nodded. "I was always desperately protecting him except for when he needed it. I just…I want him back, I want to tell him the things that I thought as he left, all the things that I never knew I could think."

"Merry," Eowyn said gently. "Pippin knows. He's always known, even before you did."

He looked up at her, wondering how she knew the things she did. Suddenly he saw that she trembled, and blurted out the first thing he could think of to comfort her. "I hope I do not have to remind you of the joy your uncle takes in you. You know that you are nobility in his eyes, don't you?"

Touched, she was taken aback by the oblivious audacity that hobbits—Merry in particular—seemed to have. She did not thank him; he saw it in her eyes and she knew he did. "But I have no purpose, Merry. If I should fight at his side, perhaps then…maybe…he would look at my face and know it. For who I really am and what I can be."

"You think because you are a woman, you do not have a purpose? Hear me, Eowyn. Those men were called to fight," Merry told her adamantly. "They fight because they have to; because they cannot be cowards. But you, you would die to fight, wouldn't you?"

Grit and valor resonated in her words. "To die would be an honour."

The armour that concealed him was heavy and moving to her required some effort. "My lady, you do not have to die to prove to your people that you are strong. You have so much to offer, but not in death. Only fools are blind to the fire in you."

"No—Merry…" She shook her head. "I have been cold for so long."

"Dying will not mend that!"

"I die for _them_!"

"For _what_, my lady?" he demanded, frustration and helplessness burning rampantly in him. "Have you ever even _known?_ Because you never had anyone to tell you the proper ways to be a woman? Because you were unloved by the men who you loved most?"

She stared at him, her wide blue eyes not bothering to hide mirrors of years and years of pain. 

"I know, Eowyn," he said with a growl soothed with gentleness. "You are not so hard to read. You are strong, but you are soft. The grief you protect and the suffering you guard are not unseen by those who look. Rivers' depths are sometimes impossible to reach, and I know no one will ever live to see the bottom of you, because you are so easy to drown in. But do not believe that you are alone in your anguish. We feel it too. We feel it for you. We fight for you, my lady."

"I do not need anyone to fight for me," she told him indignantly. 

"No, you don't," he agreed. "But this war is to save what I believe in, or at least that is why I am ready to give everything." His deep eyebrows furrowed as he nodded slowly with deliberation. "And I believe in you."

Eowyn--shield maiden of Rohan; daughter of kings; the little girl; caged bird without a voice—had cried. She had been doubted, she had been thwarted, she had never been good enough and she had been overlooked. But she had choked back her tears, and now she didn't just believe in her country and her people. Maybe the little girl that had tagged along all her life was deserving of her own faith. Perhaps she was more than the disillusion she had grown up being forced to accept. No, she was not a man, but she had strength stored for the winter and she would make the men she loved be proud of her.

Bending forward, she kissed the top of his head, laughing when his cheeky grin returned. "You are a true nobleman, Merry. I am afraid of what this battle will do to you, but I would follow you to the end."

"You will go the end but you will follow no one," he said soundly. "And besides, everyone knows I have no place in this war."

Her charming laugh filled the dimly lit tent. "Merry, you have as much place in this war as I do."

That brought a smile to his face. "Then let us fight."


End file.
